


This Beautiful Answer

by onthewayside



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Dogs, Established Relationship, Hank Anderson is Bad at Feelings, M/M, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-09 01:31:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16440500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onthewayside/pseuds/onthewayside
Summary: Hank is not one to be spontaneous or to organize something as ridiculous as a 'surprise' but Connor deserves something special and damned if Hank isn't going to deliver.Or, the one in which Connor meets a puppy (eventually).





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from a quote by e.e. cummings.
> 
> 10/11/2018 EDIT: Removed the Chapter 1 note because it kept appearing in the other chapters. Accidentally kudos-ed my own work in the process -_- My tech skills are on par with Hank's. Sorry for the false update.

\- - -

Part I

\- - -

 

There are certain words associated with Hank that make plenty of sense.

 

'Jaded' is the one he hears a lot, especially over the last few years, and it's a word that Hank wields proudly to world. ' _Yeah, I'm fucking jaded,_ ' he yells in his head when he can't actually yell at someone without having to add to an already large disciplinary file, ' _and you would be too if you spent your work days analyzing scenes from a human slaughterhouse. Try smelling a body that's been rotting away for weeks in a top floor, sun-facing apartment in the middle of July. Then let's see where being fucking jaded gets you_.'

 

'Asshole' is also a frequent one, but that's only because Hank refuses to let shitty people get away with being shitty. It's not his fault that some people can't behave like decent human beings and it's certainly not his fault that Gavin Reed's got a complex the size of Michigan and therefore can't take a little constructive criticism now and then. ('Asshole' isn't such a bad word when the wrong people use it and Hank prides himself on the fact that only the biggest dicks have labeled him as such).

 

There's been other words, many other words, in the encyclopedia of Lieutenant Anderson's life, some bad, a few good, and most of them all true to who he is. Lately though, there's a few new words creeping back in to his pitiable life, words like 'happy' and 'relaxed' and 'thankful'. These words grate on him at times, times when the black void he is clawing his way out of pulls him just a little further back in, but he's starting to accept and work them back into his life, like breaking in a new pair of shoes.

 

But there is one word that's bothering him—getting under his fucking skin right this moment—and it's all Hank can do to not vomit at his own feelings.

 

_Soft._

 

No, Hank Anderson is _not_ soft. Sure, he can be a nice guy when he feels like it and he usually tries to give people a chance (sometimes even two chances if they catch him on a good day) but he's crusty and intolerable and even in his happiest moments, no one has ever accused him of being something so low as fucking _soft._

 

But the damn word keeps floating in the back of his mind, a little voice that picks its moments to whisper ' _you're getting soft, Hank_ ' when his defenses are down. If he has to blame someone—and he's gonna damn well blame someone—then the finger is squarely pointed at Connor.

 

Always Connor. Connor with the big Bambi brown eyes. Connor with the damn curl of hair that has Hank's hands constantly itching to reach out and smooth it back in to place. Connor with those delicate freckles scattered across impossibly smooth skin, with the slight smirk that always, _always_ hits Hank like a punch to the gut, with the gentle hands and dirty mouth and body that rivals any work of art.

 

Connor, whose deviancy—in Hank's humble opinion—started eight months ago with that fateful statement: _'I like dogs_ '.

 

It's because of that singular, damning statement that Hank is currently at the dog park on this miserable, rainy, spring day, standing knee deep in mud (Connor is actually kneeling on one knee in the fucking mud because he doesn't want the dogs to feel 'intimidated' by his size) and watching while his android boyfriend tries his utmost best to befriend every damn dog in Detroit.

 

Sumo is off in some corner, nose buried deep in a bush, probably sulking because his favourite person in the whole wide world is entertaining the affections of strangers. Dog parks had never been a thing that either Hank or Sumo felt a need to visit, probably because neither of them possessed the desire to be forced into awkward small talk with people who dressed their dogs in fucking designer coats. Then along came Connor (stupid, pretty, earnest Connor), who had downloaded and memorized the entire dog encyclopedia while waiting to get reinstated by the DPD, and who's only life goal was to literally meet all the dogs.

 

Now dog parks are a thing in their lives and Sumo usually spends his time avoiding anything on four legs and Hank spends his time making sure Sumo doesn't eat anything unpleasant in retaliation for getting dragged to this social nightmare and Connor goes around, being friendly and shit and checking off more breeds on his 'Must Pet' list.

 

On this ludicrously wet day, Hank feels like he's watching a fucking tennis match, his head swinging back and forth whilst trying to keep an eye on his errant dog, who has a nasty habit of rolling in the muddiest puddle he can find, and ensuring that Connor isn't getting his face bitten off by his new fan club. _So far so good though._ Sumo's paws are caked in mud but his upper half is mercifully clean and Connor is pretty much in the same state, but they're both behaving themselves so Hank can't really bitch them out.

 

 _No way they're sitting anywhere other than the back on the way home_ , Hank grumbles to himself. _And if they so much as touch anything other than the backseat, so help me God, I am doing to drown them in the river._

 

“Hank, look!”

 

Hank tears his gaze away from Sumo's attempts to burrow under the bush and looks over to Connor who, despite being surrounded by five dogs of various sizes and breeds, is staring off towards the gate of the park with a look that can only be described as 'awestruck'.

 

Wondering what in the hell could have Connor so gobsmacked, Hank follows his partner's line of sight. When he sees the new arrival entering the park, he suddenly has to fight the dumbest urge to smile (that small voice in the back of his mind smiles with him and whispers ' _soft_ ' but he shoves it down and buries it).

 

Bouncing at the entrance is a black lab puppy, all paws and uneven balance and goofy tail. It takes a moment for the young owners to open the gate and then puppy bounds in, weaving in a zigzag as it navigates this new world, its bright red collar shining in the dull, cloudy light.

 

Connor's pack of friends take off towards this intruder, leaving Connor alone, kneeling in the wet ground. The sight of his boyfriend, bedraggled and muddy and now seemingly frozen in shock, tugs on heartstrings that Hank refuses to acknowledge as existing. But that doesn't stop him from ambling over to rest a hand on Connor's shoulder and gives it a squeeze.

 

“You okay, there? You look like you've been hit by a truck.”

 

“I'm fine.” Connor gives his head a little shake and stands, absently brushing off stray dog hairs caught on the sleeves of his coat. “I've just never...I've never seen a puppy before.”

 

“ _Seriously_?” Hank barks out a surprised laugh. “Not once, in the last seven months, have you ever, _ever_ , seen a puppy in this city? Like never? Come on, with all the damn driving we do around this place, you must have seen at least _one_ goddamn puppy.”

 

“I have seen pictures and videos of a variety of young dog breeds,” Connor informs him dryly. “And Officer Fraser has invited me over to meet her ten month old golden retriever three times this month, of which I had to respectfully decline due to our workload. We did walk by a small dog of indeterminate breed two weeks ago when we were investigating that body in the dumpster, but it was quite obviously not young as evidenced by the gray fur on its muzzle. So no, to date, I have not yet seen or met a puppy.”

 

By smart-ass Connor lecture standards, it's a mild one. Hank is surprised he wasn't subjected to an exact list of dogs they have met, categorized by date and time and location (because he would wager his entire life's savings that his boyfriend has such a list stored carefully in some nook of his bottomless brain).

 

“Okay, jackass, you win this one,” Hank says with an exaggerated sigh. “I guess with all the changes in this city, people weren't too focused on getting new pets. Times seem to be changing though.”

 

Connor can't seem to tear his gaze away from the little black ball of fur currently trying to get the attention of a disinterested mutt. “It is a positive sign if humans are once again returning to what they consider a normal life, particularly after the upheaval that came with the revolution. Perhaps we will soon get to see more puppies,” he adds, hope creeping into his voice. “I have seen a lot videos that shows how much fun they can be.”

 

They both watch as the puppy tries to chase after a sleek border collie, trips over its two front feet and goes flying into a puddle. The young couple look horrified but the puppy bounces back and takes off again in a whirl of mud and rain to say hello to a scrappy terrier nearby.

 

“Well, Connor, it looks like your lucky day. You finally get a chance to fill that empty, puppy-less hole in your new life.” Hank allows himself the barest hint of a smile. “Wanna head over to say hello?”

 

A small, stupid part of him loves these kinds of moments—the moments where he gets to watch Connor discover something new about himself, something that takes him one step further away from the Cyberlife controlled android he used to be. Hank likes to think of each step as a nice big middle finger to Connor's creators, people who probably never would have foreseen their fancy, sophisticated prototype turning into a dog-obsessed, old-man-tolerating, full-of-fucking-life _person_.

 

Connor finally tears his gaze away from the puppy and looks at Hank, his expression almost wistful.“As much as I would like to stay here and experience meeting a puppy, we unfortunately have other matters to attend to.”

 

“What the hell are you talking about? We've got nothing planned, unless you count movie night tonight.”

 

It is then that Hank realizes, with a sinking feeling, that Connor isn't really looking at him. No, Connor is actually looking _past_ him, over his shoulder, at something that apparently is much more interesting than a Labrador puppy wrestling with a beagle.

 

Hank turns, dread boiling in his gut, and comes face to face with two familiar brown eyes. Brown eyes that stare mournfully out from under a literal fucking _pile_ of mud.

 

Everything is mud. Every paw. Every ear. Every last strand of fur from his nose to the tip of his goddamn tail _._

 

Just fucking mud.

 

_Everywhere._

 

“For fuck's sake, Sumo,” Hank groans and drags a weary hand down his face. “I take my eyes off of you for five damn seconds and you go and get yourself into one big fucking mess.”

 

Sumo huffs and starts panting, his pink tongue contrasting starkly against the disgusting brown mud covering his muzzle.

 

“Perhaps I should take Sumo as I too am muddy,” Connor offers brightly and quickly clips Sumo back on to the leash (though how he finds the collar under all that drippy, filthy mud is beyond Hank). “It's a good thing we brought those extra towels.”

“Those extra towels aren't going to do shit,” Hank gripes as they start making their way back to the car, hunching his shoulders against the pitying stares of the other dog owners. “The only thing they're gonna be good for is covering the seats, which is where you'll be sitting too. And I swear if I find one speck of mud anywhere other than the those towels, both of you are going in the trunk.”

“Your trunk does not have adequate space for either an android nor a dog the size of Sumo. And it would also be highly illegal to keep us in there,” Connor informs him unnecessarily because he can be a little shit. “But I will make sure Sumo stays in place on the drive home so as not to make a mess in your car.”

“I'm holding you to that,” Hank warns him. “You're also gonna be the one who gives him a good hose down outside. Neither of you are getting within five feet of the front door until those goddamn paws are whiter than snow.”

“It will be close to impossible to maintain the whiteness of Sumo's if I have to wash him outside, as the dirt from the ground will no doubt leave some coating on his paws after I have bathed him.”

“They you're just going to have find some magical way of doing it because I'm serious. Get him clean or stay outside until you freeze to death. And don't give me any 'Hank, I can't freeze to death as my internal sensors will calibrate my temperature' or some robo-shit like that because I don't care. We are _not_ spending our whole fucking day off cleaning the house.”

Connor's eyes crinkle at the edges (it is not sweet or special and it definitely does not make Hank feel like resting his lips, briefly, just there) as he grins because he was probably about to say some robo-shit like that. “I will do my best, Hank.”

It takes a lot of effort and coaxing to get the disgusting mess that was once Sumo into the back of what was once a clean-ish car, and Hank is pretty much focused on trying to minimize the damage to the back seat but he just so happens to catch a glimpse of Connor watching the dogs (and that little baby furball), and Hank's heart unexpectedly twists in his chest.

 

There's that small, stupid part of him again, wishing he could have had an image to treasure of Connor down in that muddy field, hands out to meet an adorable black lab puppy with a red collar, who would probably jump and nip and fall over backwards trying to say hello. And Connor would probably be beaming from excitement and Hank would once again watch those warm brown eyes brighten and fucking shine like they do when Connor is well and truly happy. And _then_ that strange curl of happiness would snake its way through arteries and veins until it took hold of Hank's heart and settled there,warm and foreign and satisfyingly comfortable.

 

( _Soft_ , the voice echoes again.

 

 _Fuck off_ , Hank retorts and bends down to give Sumo one last shove.)

 

\- - -

 

A week goes by, then another, and the rain pours steadily all the while, leading Hank to ban all further dog park visits until there is a 'no mud pit' guarantee. Sumo pouts at the short walks but Connor has the patience of a fucking Saint and lets Sumo sniff every single blade of grass in the neighbourhood, so it's not like the dog can claim neglect.

 

Work chugs along as only work on the homicide squad can. Since the revolution, crimes against androids had gone through a sudden swell in numbers, which was of no surprise to anyone because humans were pretty shitty to each other to begin with and now—faced with what news outlets were calling a 'whole new species'—they responded as well as they usually do when presented with some perceived threat to their superiority. Still, some humans are still happily focused on being shitty to other humans, so their caseload is a little more diverse these days and Hank and Connor are kept pretty busy.

 

The break room is a good hiding place from said work though, and on this particular Tuesday, Hank's motivation to tackle the stack of paperwork on his desk ranks just below 'getting shot in the face'. So he's hiding by the coffee machine, waiting for a fresh batch to brew (because what better way to kill a few minutes of not doing paperwork than by dumping Miller's perfectly good batch and making a whole new pot) and enjoying the relative peace.

 

It is weirdly peaceful too, probably because half of the bullpen is out on some case or another and Hank's day had brightened exponentially when he had heard that Detective Reed had been assigned to a full day's worth of sifting through literal garbage at the dump where two bodies—one android and one human—had turned up. The thought of Reed (all snark and sneer and scruffy facial hair) spending a cold, rainy day up to his eyeballs in stinking piles of rotting food is almost enough to make him smile.

 

 _It's the little things_ , he hums to himself as the coffee maker pings. The little things like knowing the resident asshole of the department is having a miserable day. Or that Connor had let him sleep past eight a.m. for the first time in weeks. Or that part of the reason he had been allowed the luxury of staying in bed was because Connor was happily snoozing in cyberspace, lulled into stasis by a very busy and entertaining night.

 

Since the whole 'androids discovering they're alive' thing that had rocked the world, Cyberlife had been less focused on churning out mindless slaves and had turned instead to producing numerous software updates for the existing android population to help them integrate into human society—all optional, of course, because Cyberlife was also smart enough to know forcing shit on living beings was now a bad idea. There had been a lame '12 Days of Christmas' run of updates last December and New Year's had brought with it 'New Year's Resolutions for a New Android' and Valentine's Day had been properly hijacked by some interesting offers too (no one could claim Cyberlife's PR department wasn't working to their full potential).

 

Not that Hank could complain about them. He had certainly benefited from more than a few of the upgrades and he could admit to himself that he's enjoyed some of the simple ones too, like having an android boyfriend who looks less like a corpse and more like human being when he goes into stasis. It's even nicer to wake up to that same android boyfriend actually mimicking the act of waking up (with mussed hair and big brown eyes blinking and a slow smile working its way across those dumb perfect lips) instead of springing in to action like some human-shaped alarm clock.

 

( _Getting soft, Hank_ , that voice sighs.

 

 _Get fucked_ , Hank whispers back.)

 

The coffee smells decent and the first sip passes the 'is this worth drinking' test so Hank decides he can't waste anymore time without Connor getting suspicious and heads back to his desk.

 

In the many minutes Hank has managed to successfully waste, Connor has gained a visitor and for a moment, Hank pauses mid-stride in confusion before he spots the blonde ponytail poking out from under the police hat.

 

Officer Erin Fraser is probably Connor's first true human friend. Back in November, Hank would have said that title was reserved solely for him but as things twisted and developed and changed over all those weeks, Hank was happy to ditch the 'friend' label for something a little more intimate. Sure, there were others who were friendly around the squad, but it hadn't been until they worked with Officer Fraser on a case a few months back that Connor had finally befriended his first genuine human.

 

They had bonded over the victim's dog ( _of course they had)_ and Fraser had agreed to keep the ten-year-old mutt, which had spared Hank the inevitable awkwardness of having to tell Connor that ' _no, Sumo doesn't want an older brother, put that damn dog down and analyze this knife_ '.

 

Hank likes Officer Fraser well enough. For a beat cop, she's good at the job and she has a knack with getting along with people from all walks of life. She's young, pretty, and seems to like Connor for who he is. It also doesn't hurt that she's currently renting our her basement to a human-android couple or that her boyfriend is one of the many Cyberlife developers who's given Connor opportunities to finally touch and sleep and feel.

 

So yeah, she's a good kind of human. But seeing her standing by Connor's desk, young face smiling and laughing while she chats with Hank's equally young and weirdly endearing boyfriend does no favours to Hank's already shaky self-esteem. He's getting better at dealing with those shit-tastic thoughts that invade his brain but his defenses are still weak and every so often he looks at Connor and just thinks ' _Why?_ '.

 

 _Why me? Why would someone who's just discovering who they are, who has any and every fucking opportunity in this world to find someone to be with, to discover life with, choose_ me _?_

 

Some days—those darker days that he still stumbles into because recovery is a fucking long process and not an easy three-step solution—he even creates a list in his fucked up head. His hair is straggly, his beard needs some serious maintenance, his clothes scream 'aging millenial', he swears too much and exercises rarely, he would rather be alone than in a crowd and his opinion on the glass half-empty or half-full problem is ' _as long as it's not water, I don't give a flying fuck how much of it there is_ '.

 

(Connor keeps him steady though, keeps him from falling too far these days and Hank is trying, he is really trying, he is trying so fucking hard because Connor is patient and attentive and gives Hank meaning in what was once a bleak, soul-sucking life).

 

So he hesitates, mid-step, fights those nasty, intrusive thoughts from his brain and takes a fortifying gulp of his coffee.

 

“Officer Fraser, what brings you round here?”

 

“Lieutenant! I was wondering where you were hiding!” She is all smiles as she waves him over. “And drop the whole 'Officer' thing, will you? I told you, just call me Erin.”

 

“Wouldn't want Fowler thinking I'm disrespecting the subordinates,” Hank says and sinks down into his chair. “I've got enough complaints in my file already. So are you here to make us work?”

 

“Nope, just dropping off some evidence for Officer Chen. And, of course, to show off pictures of my new baby to Connor.” She laughs. “He's the only one who puts up with all of my complaining these days. Pretty sure everyone I work with now thinks I'm the crazy dog mom.”

 

“You are not crazy,” Connor assures her as if he is some expert in what being crazy really means. “You care about your new dog and simply wish to share in her exploits.”

 

“Ha, exploits is the right word. That little fluffy monster has already eaten two pairs of shoes and destroyed three cushions from her crate.” Erin rifles around in her jacket pocket and produces her phone. “Wanna see how cute the little she-demon is getting, Lieutenant?”

 

Hank shrugs nonchalantly. “Sure, I never could resist a cute face.”

 

She swipes to a recent photo of a disgustingly adorable golden retriever puppy with a shoe in her mouth and with a fuzzy face that screams 'shit disturber'. Even Hank has to admit the damn dog is cute and tells her so. “Probably pretty hard to say no to that furball.”

 

“Oh yeah, she could probably get away with murder and we would still forgive her.” Erin drops the phone back into her pocket. “I could probably spend all day showing you videos but I gotta go before my partner calls in my disappearance. You guys should come by my place though, sometime soon. Maybe you could even bring your dog, Lieutenant? Toby needs to start meeting other dogs and from what Connor tells me, Sumo is a gentle giant.”

 

“Sumo would probably sit on your dog and crush her,” Hank warns her and makes the mistake of looking at Connor as he says this. Connor's face isn't always the most expressive but the LED at his temple is whirring yellow and Hank knows he went ahead and said the wrong thing. Again. Old Hank wouldn't have cared less, but this Hank-who-is-trying sighs and adds,“But,Connor and I would be happy to drop by sometime. Maybe next week? If work doesn't get too batshit crazy.”

 

Hank doesn't know which expression is more painful—Fraser's bright smile or Connor's fucking beaming face—but he masks his resignation with a scowl. “No promises on Sumo being a good role model though. Pretty sure he tried to eat a dead mouse last week.”

 

“Toby has already eaten things that I don't wanna talk about. But that sounds great! I'll text you, Connor, and we can figure out a doggy play date!”

 

Never, in all of his fifty-fucking-three years, would Hank have _ever_ guessed he would actually be agreeing, without a literal gun to his head, on going to a fucking doggy play date. Then again, he never, ever, _ever_ would have thought he would here, alive and sort-of-well (and getting better) and sitting across from a pretty-boy android who still uses his mouth to analyze substances when he thinks Hank isn't looking and who, for whatever fucked up reason, has decided that Hank is the one person who matters most in this world.

 

Hank doesn't have a belief system or any crap like that, but he had always liked the idea of karma and of terrible people getting back all of the fuckery that they delivered in the first place. But when it comes to him, when he thinks of everything he's done and said (and probably will do again because he's bad at change), he still can't understand where it all balanced out on those cosmic scales and somehow, by some miracle, it gave him back Connor.

 

( _Seriously, so fucking soft_ , the voice laughs.

 

 _Fuck you,_ says Hank.)

 

\- - -

 

“Hank?”

 

“Mm hm?”

 

“What was Sumo like as a puppy?”

 

Hank blinks, pauses mid-sentence in his book and glances up at Connor. They're on the couch, Hank with his back against one armrest, Sumo against the other and Connor smack in the middle, because that's the only way both dog and human get to properly share their favourite living space heater. Sumo has his head plastered to Connor's right leg, Hank has his toes tucked under Connor's left leg and Connor, always a proficient multitasker, is giving out head scratches and idle leg caresses while simultaneously watching some old nature documentary.

 

Connor's still happily focused on the TV, probably doesn't realize how deep of a question it really is or that the first answer on the tip of Hank's tongue is _I don't wanna fucking talk about._ Which would be a pretty weird response to such a normal question but the question, innocent as it is, delves back into the quagmire of Hank's past and Hank's natural, built-in response to such probing usually begins or ends with the words 'fuck off'.

 

It's not like they haven't talked about Hank's life Before Connor, and it's not like Connor doesn't know about Cole or the accident or the fact that Hank's been a total fuck up for the last three years. Connor even knows a little bit about his ex-wife (an accountant, ran off with her yoga instructor to Chicago like some fucking movie cliche six months before the accident, currently blocked on Hank's phone, email, and mental list of people he cares about), which is more than most people will ever know.

 

But it still hurts when Hank dredges up the past, hurts because there is always that gaping black hole that lingers in his chest whenever he lets his mind wander back over the last three years. A black hole in the shape of his son that used to bleed into his bones and constrict his chest and take his mind down the darkest, bleakest of paths. It's still there, that hole—it always will be—but lately the edges of the void have stabilized. The stifling, heavy blackness no longer oozes freely through his body and now when the darkness creeps into the edges of his vision (or of his head or heart), Hank turns to Connor, whose patience and tenderness keeps it at bay, like some kind of breakwater taking the brunt of a nasty storm.

 

Connor, who has become so fucking important to Hank that he sometimes aches with fear of losing him. Connor, who slipped past Hank's ironclad defenses like some kind of fucking cat burglar, and plunked himself down in the middle of his heart and refused to move. Connor, who looks good enough to eat right now, drowning in Hank's oversized hoodie, legs stretched out onto the coffee table and that same stupid curl of hair hanging down on his forehead.

 

Connor, who has stopped watching the TV to stare at Hank in confusion, his beautiful eyes narrowing and his LED flickering between yellow and blue. Belatedly, Hank realizes he's been silent for awhile and Connor's finally clued in to how awkward the silence is,which means it's a fuck ton of awkward because Connor's grasp of 'awkward' is still pretty much non-existent.

 

“Hank?” This time the voice is softer and the idling hand that had been drawing absent shapes along his calf slides up and rests firmly on his knee. “I am sorry if I said something wrong. Was that question not acceptable?”

 

“It's fine,” Hank reassures him and does a fuck-up job of it apparently because Connor's jaw tightens and his lips thin and his LED starts glowing a solid yellow. Everything about Connor's expression screams 'not buying your bullshit' and if Hank wasn't so shaken up, he would have laughed at the ridiculously human expression on the android's face.

 

Hank tries again, because this is Connor, who loves dogs and loves Sumo ( _and maybe loves you_ , the voice sneaks in like a jackass) and he deserves to hear this story. “No, seriously, it's fine. Figured you would ask me one day. I'm just surprised it hasn't come up before.”

 

“I admit that I have been meaning to ask you, but seeing pictures of Toby made me wonder what Sumo looked like at four months old. It's hard to imagine that he was ever small.” Connor absently runs a finger along Sumo's ear. “But I did not mean to upset you or bring up unpleasant memories. I did not realize Sumo's early years were that bad. He is a good dog so I simply assumed that he was a good puppy.”

 

“He might've been. I don't really know.” Hank steadies himself, reminds himself that he can do this, he's got this, he can tell his boyfriend about how Sumo came into his life, because even though it happened during Hank's darkest years, it's still not the worst story he will have to tell. “I got Sumo when he was four and a half.”

 

Hank pauses, lets the number sink in. He knows Connor does the math, knows certain key dates of Hank's pathetic life are imprinted in his that high-tech brain. The equation is pretty simple: _subtract Sumo's birthday from the date of the accident and add two months_. It isn't exactly fucking rocket science.

 

He can pinpoint the exact moment when Connor figures it all out because his LED suddenly settles and the pale blue swirls back in to place. All Connor can say is, “Oh.”

 

“Yeah. It's kind of a funny story though.”

 

“If you don't want to tell me, then you don't have to—”

 

“Connor, seriously, if I didn't want to tell you, I would have told you to shut it hours ago.” Hank lets go of his book and uses his free hand to brush against the back of Connor's hand. The feel of familiar smooth skin is comforting and it takes only a second for Connor to understand the unvoiced request. He lets go of Hank's knee, turns his palm up and as their fingers tangle together and tighten, Hank lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding in.

 

“It was about two months after the accident and I was back on Homicide, trying to drown myself in booze and work and sometimes both at the same time. I'd been stuck on desk duty but the squad was overworked and a bunch of cases came through in one big pile. There was a murdered teenage girl dumped by the highway and Fowler decided to get me away from my desk and give me the case. He probably thought it was a safe one for me take, because one of other cases involved a drunk driver mowing down an android pushing a baby carriage and another one dealt with a pedophile who liked little boys.”

 

Connor's grips tightens. “Captain Fowler is perceptive.”

 

Hank snorts. “It wouldn't have taken a genius to know putting me on one of those cases was a fucking bad idea. Everybody knew I was a complete fucked-up mess but Fowler seemed to think I was ready to start my life again.”

 

“Perhaps he thought that the case would serve as a distraction to your...problems.”

 

“It was a distraction all right. Turned in to a fucking obsession. I spent every hour of the day going over the case files and interviewing witnesses and watching CCTV footage. Hell, I spent one whole day just tracking down the girl's ex-boyfriend from grade eight because I figured he would have some kind of magical insight into why she had turned up dead in a ditch by the highway.”

 

“You're a good detective, Hank,” Connor assures him, always loyal. “You have good instincts, even if your methods are not always by the book.”

 

“Says the guy who licks blood and who knows what the fuck else off of walls and floors,” Hank retorts and is rewarded with a fleeting smile.

 

“Anyway, everything I had dug up so far had turned in to a dead end and shit was hitting the fan because the girl's mother was demanding answers I didn't have. So I decided to hunt down another lead, some college kid that the girl had met at a party two weeks before her body was found. It didn't seem promising but I was desperate for something to work on so I tracked him down. The kid lived out in one of Detroit's nicer suburbs and both of his parents worked for Cyberlife and had made a killing, so I was preparing myself to meet with an entitled shithead.

 

“How did you know he would be unpleasant? Did he have a record of bad behaviour?”

 

“No, but his house had a fucking tennis court in the backyard. Of _course_ he was gonna be a shithead.” Hank rolls his eyes. “ _Anyway_ , I was already buzzed from my morning glass of whiskey and I was thinking this would be a quick interview at the door and then I could be on my merry fucking way. So I ring the bell and the dickhead answers and his eyes get huge and panicky and before you know it, he's shoving past me and starts sprinting down the fucking street.”

 

Connor nods, as if he is reconstructing the whole scenario in his head with his state-of-the-art software. “So you pursued him.”

 

“I tried but like I said, I was kind of drunk and I wasn't expecting him to fucking bolt. And the fucker was fast but I was in better shape back then so I managed to keep up. He went running into one of the backyards of the other mega mansions that was on the street and leaped over the fence like a fucking deer or something.” Hank shakes his head, remembering the looming wooden fence as he panted and puffed in pursuit, how he had thought in his whiskey-tinged haze that he could totally take the fence and make it cleanly to the other side like fucking Superman or something. “I probably should have gone back to the car, radioed it in, and then drove around til I found him but I was buzzed and stupid and obsessed with solving the case. So I decided I could jump the fence too.”

 

“That was, perhaps, not the best route to take.”

 

“No shit it wasn't. I barely made it over the fence and I was actually feeling pretty damn good about myself for even making it to the other side when suddenly, out of nowhere, this massive shape comes flying at me and throws me to the ground. My head must have smacked something pretty hard because everything got blurry for a while. And when I snapped out of it, I was lying on the ground with that—” Hank points an accusing finger at the snoozing Sumo with his free hand, “—fat-ass on top of me and breathing his rotten dog breath in my face.”

 

Sumo's eyes open as if on cue and he huffs as if he knows exactly what and who his owners are talking about and is protesting Hank's version of events. Connor, always willing to forgive anyone canine, gives the Saint Bernard's head a decent scratch. “I am certain Sumo had no intention of hurting you. He certainly did not attack me when I broke into your house in November, although he did run towards me rather alarmingly. It was probably an accident that he knocked you over as he is unaware of how large he actually is.”

 

“Ha! This shithead knew exactly what he was doing because he refused to get off of me no matter how hard I shoved and cussed. Had me pinned down for probably a good ten minutes before the owner of the property came storming out and demanded to know what the hell I was doing in her backyard.”

 

Hank loosens his grip on Connor's hand as the story bleeds out of him because the unpleasant part is over (it's always the beginnings he has a hard time with, that initial start to a story in his life, and as he gets going he finds it easier and easier to share because he's had those words bottled up for so _long_ and it actually feels fucking good to tell them to someone else for a change). “Her name was Nancy. She called Sumo off and was nice enough to let me explain everything. By the time I was finished, the prick was long gone and I think she felt sorry for me, because she invited me in for coffee and let me use the phone to call it in.”

 

“While I was waiting for my backup to arrive, she gave me Sumo's sad sob story. He'd been from one of her first litters and she'd sold him to some family who lived in the city. Guess the dad got transferred out of state and they couldn't take him so Nancy agreed to take Sumo back so he wouldn't end up in some shitty animal shelter. She dropped a lot of hints about how she was selling up her place in the city and moving to the country to expand her dog-breeding business and how Sumo was useless to her because he was neutered.”

 

“Long story short, I left her place stinking of dog but thinking that having a dog around wasn't the worst idea. Then we caught the college dipshit the next morning trying to bus it down to Florida and he fucking cracked after three questions, so I was in a pretty good mood.” Hank feels his lips quirk. “Went back to Nancy's after that, had Sumo nearly take me down again in the hallway and decided to take him home. Guess I'm just a sucker for brown eyes.”

 

Connor ignores the innuendo and the waggle of Hank's eyebrows and focuses on the serious shit (because _of course_ he does). “They say dogs can sense things that humans cannot. Sumo must sensed that you needed him and that he needed you too.”

 

 _Like you, Connor. I need you too. Need you more than you will ever fucking know._ He feels those words, feels them press down on his heart and bury their way in to his mind, feels them more often as the days go by and Connor is still here, still ready with a snarky lecture or a surprising quip or a whisper of peace after a hard day. For the millionth time, Hank hates himself for keeping the words hidden but he can't help himself. His ex-wife used to always say that if you looked up 'Hank Anderson' in the dictionary, it would simply link to the article on 'Emotional Constipation' with his mugshot right beside it. He'd clung to that statement for a long time, was almost proud of it for whatever fucking reason his pride gave him, but he's starting to realize that keeping shit like that inside is actually a pretty bad idea. Especially when those words belong to Connor, who asks for nothing and deserves _everything_ Hank can give him.

 

“Thank you for telling me that story. Although I am sorry that I will not get to see puppy Sumo pictures.” Connor's voice snaps him out of this thoughts and Hank realizes belatedly that Connor has inched towards him, his arm between Hank's knees and his hand now resting on Hank's thigh. “He was probably very cute.”

 

Subtlety is something Connor has become better at ( _way_ better at it, considering their romantic relationship had started with Connor declaring ' _I want to engage in sexual activities with you'_ ) and Hank softens at the unspoken question, lets his legs relax so Connor can scoot in. “Just go online and look up Saint Bernard puppies. You'll get the general idea.”

 

Connor's hands—those lithe, gentle hands—cup Hank's face, fingers brushing his temples, his touch delicate and steady and sure. “Do you think there might be a chance we will get to see a Saint Bernard puppy?”

 

“Detroit's a big city,” Hank points out, his voice roughened by the sudden frissons of heat radiating along his cheeks and down his neck and snaking around his spine. “Who knows? We might get lucky one day.”

 

“I already consider myself lucky,” Connor says softly and Hank feels his heart constrict and his tongue freeze and damns his fucking abysmal emotional response rate to hell. “Meeting a younger version of Sumo would only increase how lucky I have become.”

 

Words might not Hank's thing, but he can at least _do_ things, and what he chooses to do is grab Connor by the neck and drag those perfectly shaped lips down to his in a heated, desperate kiss. _I'm lucky too_ , he says when he opens his mouth to Connor's searching tongue. _So lucky_ , he says when he pulls Connor further, deepens the angle and Connor is now looming above him, hips pressing down between Hank's thighs. _So fucking lucky_ , he says when one hand fists desperately in Connor's hair and the other goes around his waist and under the sweatshirt to claw at silky skin. Connor moans (what a discovery that had been, hearing Connor moan and whine and make such reckless, human noises) and Hank eats up the sound as the heat coiling around his spine slithers further down.

 

( _Not so soft right now_ , the voice smirks.

 

 _You're the fucking worst_ , Hank snarks back before all further coherent thoughts are melted from his brain.)

 

 

\- - -


	2. Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, THANK YOU to everyone who left a comment and/or kudos. It's been so long since I've written or posted anything, and all of you have given me some much-needed encouragement and I truly appreciate it. So thank you, thank you, thank you!
> 
> Here's the second part in what has become a three part saga . Sorry to drag it out for one more chapter but it's only because I couldn't stop writing and I wanted to break up the huge dump of words that I have written into something more manageable. 
> 
> Enjoy!

\- - -

Part II

\- - -

 

Maybe it's the intense night, or maybe it's the quiet morning of arms wrapped around each other (and a kiss or two or three), or maybe it's because Hank _cannot_ , for the life of him, shake the image of just how fucking happy Connor's going to be when he finally gets to meet that elusive puppy. Whatever the case, Hank wakes up with an idea lodged in his head that just won't let go. It nags at him while he showers, while he eats his breakfast (oatmeal and fruit because Connor is a dictator and has ruled that Hank needs to improve his eating habits), and on the drive in to work.

 

It continues to eat away at his thoughts while he attempts to read through the autopsy report for their latest victim (not that he needed to read too closely because when they had arrived on scene, the murder weapon—a screwdriver—was still sticking out of the victim's head) and Hank realizes he's re-read the same run-on sentence three times before finally calling it quits.

 

_Ah fuck it_ , he thinks in resignation. _What's there to lose?_ It's not like the idea is terrible and if the whole thing backfires and turns into a giant shitpile, Connor will never have to know. Besides, if everything does work out the way he's hoping it will, then Connor's robo-brain will literally be blown and maybe he'll even be so goddamn grateful that he'll finally let Hank eat a fucking burger more than once a month.

 

( _You're a terrible liar, you old softy_ , the voice laments.

 

_You're just fucking terrible_ , Hank growls back.)

 

With his mind now firmly made up, Hank ventures a quick glance at Connor (and it has to be quick because Connor's success rate at detecting Hank trying to be sneaky is literally one hundred and ten percent) who is engrossed in whatever file he has up on his screen. He doesn't register the brief glance, Hank can tell, because those brown eyes don't budge—not even by an inch—like they usually do when Connor is trying to be subtle and flash a quick scan of something or someone.

 

With his confidence in being able to execute this plan bolstered, Hank stretches, grabs his phone as nonchalantly as he can and slips his jacket on. “Hey Connor, just gonna step outside for a second. You good?”

 

“I have three hundred and twenty-two cold cases to search through. I will be fine.” He pauses in his reading or scanning or whatever the hell it is he actually does to process the information and sends Hank a brief warning look. “I would also caution you, Lieutenant, that the hot dog stand down the road has now been fined for poor hygiene practices and in actual fact should not be operating. You might do well to stay away from that corner.”

 

Hank rolls his eyes. “Jesus, I fall off of the goddamn healthy eating wagon _one_ time and you act like I'm a fucking criminal or something.”

 

Whichever code monkey had been in charge of programming Connor's various expressions should win a fucking award for Connor's withering stare. If looks could kill (and sometimes Hank is kind of surprised Cyberlife hadn't developed an android with such a feature), that stare would have turned anyone in its path into literal dust. Luckily three years of alcohol-induced armor against other people's pretentious judgement have given Hank all the survival skills he needs to withstand it.

 

“You have eaten those hot dogs at least six times in the past eight weeks.” Connor raises an eyebrow ( _and_ that _fucking expression would win second place_ , Hank thinks bitingly). “Would you like to know how I am aware of such a fact?”

 

Hank plants both his hands on his desk, leans in towards his asshole of a boyfriend and keeps his voice low. “I can probably guess what you're gonna say but if you so much as _whisper_ about having your tongue in my mouth at work, I _will_ shoot you.”

 

There is no heat, no malice to the threat, because Connor is perfectly aware of Hank's feelings towards the whole squad knowing that they not only share a house and a dog, but a bed and a couch and a couple of sweatshirts too. And Connor—probably the most patient person in the fucking _universe_ for putting up with all of Hank's weird personal shit–seems perfectly happy to continue on with the secrecy for Hank's sake because Hank still isn't ready to have the department all up in his fucking business (especially Reed, because he's shitty enough as it is and doesn't need any more material for his already creative insults).

 

He's understanding and patient and nicer than he has to be, but Connor is still a little shit, which is proven as he leans in and drops his voice. “I will keep quiet about our partnership provided you stay away from the hot dog stand. At least until they are up to code.” That perfectly sculpted eyebrow goes—if possible—higher, laying down a challenge that Hank fucking _aches_ to accept.

 

If they were in the privacy of their own home right now, Hank would cheerfully retaliate by shoving Connor against a wall (or whatever hard, upright surface is closest), his hands digging into that stylish jacket while his mouth drags along every sweet spot Connor has until Connor is gasping and pleading and fucking _singing_ with want. But there are certain drawbacks to working with your (secret) boyfriend—the obvious one being no hooking up at work—and Hank can only curse his poor life choices yet again as he settles for his usual scowl and shoves his suddenly itching hands deep into his pockets.

 

“ _Fine._ ” He drags the word out long and slow (and, he can admit, just a bit childishly). “No fucking hot dogs for me then.”

 

Connor simply nods, his voice brightening back to normal business levels. “They are remarkably high in sodium and their ingredients are questionable. You will be better off without them.”

 

“Fuck, it's like having the secret junk food police on my tail,” Hank groans to no one in particular. “But I still need to head outside for a breather, if that's okay with you. Or do I need to get a permission slip signed by my mommy first?”

 

“You are fifty-three years old. You certainly don't need anyone's permission to go outside,” Connor says in a matter-of-fact tone that makes Hank want to simultaneously strangle him and go stuff twenty of the biggest, saltiest hot dogs in his face.

 

_If I didn't want to wake up to you every fucking morning, I'd have murdered you a long time ago_ , Hank grumbles to himself as he makes his way outside. _You're fucking lucky you're the best thing that's come into my life, Connor._

 

The air is still cool from the spring rains (which have mercifully stopped for the foreseeable future) and Hank ducks his chin against the bitter wind as he finds a secluded corner of the parking lot, where he's confident no one will either see or hear him.

 

It only takes a few minutes of searching online to find what he's looking for and his discovery is soon followed by a phone call that throws Hank off only because hearing that particular voice brings him back to a part of his past that he had successfully repressed and buried (until recently). The conversation is pleasant though, and it brings with it a positive outcome because now his idea has turned into an actual solid _event_ and Hank doesn't even try to fight the swell of excitement that tingles along his every nerve when he hangs up.

 

He honestly can't remember the last time he's been something so fucking lame as ' _excited_ ' in a long (so _very_ long) time, but Hank is ready to go down with this stupid ship full of feelings because he can finally do something for Connor that isn't just hanging around dog parks or hanging around crime scenes or hanging around boring places like the grocery store. This is an actual _trip_ , with an endpoint that Hank is utterly convinced will make Connor the happiest android on this side of the fucking planet.

 

The next call he makes is a little less pleasant, partly because Fowler can be an ass but also because Fowler happens to know Hank a little too well and probably knows more about Hank and Connor than he lets on.

 

Hank doesn't start with any niceties, just jumps right in to it headfirst. “Connor and I need the day off tomorrow.”

 

Fowler pauses on the line. “Good morning to you too, Hank. Why the hell are you calling me? Weren't you just at your desk ten minutes ago?”

 

“I had something to do,” Hank says by way of explanation, which is nowhere close to any kind of explanation at all. “Look, I don't need you asking questions or anything like that. I know I've got a shitload of vacation stashed away and I thought I should finally use it. Figured Connor could finally experience a vacation day too. The kid's been working too hard”

 

“I'm not questioning your right to a vacation day,” Fowler retorts and Hank can practically hear his frown. “Or Connor's for that matter. But this isn't like you. Are you sure everything is okay?”

 

“What part of 'don't ask me any bullcrap questions' did you not hear?” Hank rolls his eyes skyward. “But if you really want to know, then yeah, everything's just peachy. Why wouldn't it be?”

 

“Because you _never_ take time off. The last time you took a vacation day was because your battery died in that snowstorm and you had to wait half the day for a tow and that was over a year ago.” Fowler pauses again and Hank can hear the squeak of his chair in the background as he shuffles around with something on his desk. “Is Connor okay?”

 

“Connor's fine, I'm fine, everything is fucking fine. We just need tomorrow off.”

 

“Dare I ask why?”

 

“Jeffrey,” Hank says as sweetly as can be,“it's none of your goddamn business.”

 

There is another uncomfortable pause on the line and Hank is starting to regret ever having this brilliant idea in the first place. Then another creak of the chair echoes down the line and he can hear Fowler's sigh over the tap-tap-tap of his fingers on the keyboard. “Your attendance record has improved significantly over these last six months and your case clearance rate is exceptional. As long as your current cases aren't going to suffer for it, you two can have tomorrow off.”

 

“Appreciate it, Captain,” Hank says, with emphasis on the title to prove that he can behave and he will behave for the next few hours in thanks.

 

“And, Hank?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

Hank can hear the fucking smirk over the phone. “Have fun.”

 

\- - -

 

It doesn't take long before Connor finds out about the vacation day because this is _Connor_ , superstar android detective who can scan and reconstruct the entirety of a crime scene in ten minutes flat, and who also—unfortunately for Hank—has direct access to his work account embedded in his brain.

 

They're in the car, parked by the apartment that had once been the residence of Wayne Duncan, small-time red ice dealer and star of the autopsy report that Hank had given up reading because, again, death by screwdriver through head was a pretty obvious conclusion to make. Although the case seems open and shut (prints on the weapon, hair samples, and CCTV footage all point to a known addict who lives a few blocks away), there are still neighbours to question and witness statements to take before they can call it a productive day. Hank had also hoped that rushing Connor out of the office after his conversation with Fowler would be an extra guarantee that their impending day off was going to stay an actual fucking surprise but life had a nasty habit of kicking Hank in the proverbial balls and laughing in his face and today was turning out to be no different.

 

“That's strange.”

 

Hank looks up from his notepad where he's been writing down the last few notes from Duncan's next-door neighbour (not that it was worth much since she was eighty-two, partially blind, and wouldn't have heard a fucking tank crashing through her front door). “Something wrong?”

 

Connor's head is tilted to the side, his hands fiddling with the hem of his jacket. “I just received an email stating my vacation balance has been updated. It seems I am now missing a day's worth of hours. Perhaps there has been an error in the calculations.” His LED whirls yellow, reflecting in the window of the car. “I have informed them there has been a mistake.”

 

_Fucking bureaucracy_ , Hank groans, berating himself for his lack of oversight. His brushes with HR were usually unpleasant—complaints about his attendance, complaints from other cops, complaints about his regular verbal sparring matches with Reed—but he had forgotten that HR also dealt with the mundane shit too. Shit like keeping on top of vacation balances, apparently.

 

“Wait, Connor, stop—fuck, you try to do _one_ nice thing—” Hank reaches out quickly, grabs his partner's wrist. “You gotta take that email back.”

 

“But there is obviously something wrong with my vacation entitlement—”

 

“There's nothing wrong with it.” Hit with a sudden wave of humiliation, Hank waivers because he had been so caught up in trying to plan this damn surprise that he never thought of how he's going to explain to his boyfriend that he went ahead and booked a day off without actually getting that same boyfriend's go ahead to do so. “I, uh...I asked Fowler if we could have the day off tomorrow.”

 

Connor stares at him in bewilderment, LED still a sunny yellow. “Why?”

 

“I just...fuck, this is gonna sound lame.” Hank sits back, runs a hand over his face as he feels a flush creeping up his neck. “Look, I probably should have asked for your permission or something but then you would have asked a thousand fucking questions and...well, it's just supposed to be a day off for us to—I dunno—go do something nice.

 

“Something nice?” Connor's brow furrows, which—from Hank's lengthy experience in reading Connor's emotions—means Connor is now totally fucking out-of-this-world confused. “But why does it require us to take a day off of work? We can do nice things on the weekends as we always do.”

 

“Yeah but sometimes there are things you can only do on _specific_ days during the week, which means you have to take a day off work to do them.”

 

“There is something you aren't telling me,” Connor states, concern now replacing the confusion on his beautiful, solemn face and Hank knows, _knows_ , the jackass is scanning him (he also knows that Connor tries not to scan him these days and Connor must really be fucking worried if he _is_ scanning him and Hank starts to feel just a bit guilty about how everything is going down). “You pulse is elevated, your skin has acquired a red hue, and you have been unable to make direct eye contact with me since we left the precinct. Your behaviour could only be described as 'shifty', which leads me to believe that you are hiding something. I would have assumed it was about using one of my vacation days without my consent—” Hank feels a another stab of guilt over that because Connor has had some struggles with his independence and the last thing he _ever_ wants to do is make Connor feel like he has no control “—but you are still showing signs of discomfort in spite of this discovery. I can only conclude there is an event going on tomorrow that you don't want me to know about, perhaps because it is unpleasant and you don't wish to cause me concern.”

 

Shit, shit, _shit_ , Of course he's going to jump to the worst possible conclusion because Hank is the _worst_ and Connor hasn't had any other role models in his relatively short life to compare. Hank had actually tried to tell Connor that Hank Anderson was, indeed, the fucking worst back in January, that he needed to get out into the world and meet new people and new androids and that could find someone better ( _he can do_ so _much better)_ and then his stupid infatuation with an old, washed-up detective would fade. And Connor, the stubborn smart-ass, had informed him that he had made his decision and that Hank was the only one he wanted or needed and that unless otherwise told to go, he would stay right where he was, in Hank's home and by Hank's side and (quite enthusiastically) in Hank's bed.

 

It's that thought—that sweetly buoyant memory of the night they had finally stopped dancing around each other's goddamn feelings and fucking acted on them—that has Hank's voice roughen with an emotion he refuses to name

 

( _Go ahead and name it, you idiot, you know the word,_ the voice pipes in.

 

_I can't fucking hear you_ , Hank hollers.)

 

“I swear it's not something bad, not even close,” Hank promises him gruffly. “It's a surprise. A nice surprise. Something you'll enjoy doing.”

 

“A surprise? For me?” Connor blinks. “Why?”

 

“I don't know, maybe because I fucking want to? Because I thought it would be fun to take you somewhere and do something new and to get away from our boring routine for once?” Hank sighs, rubs at an ache in his neck (that has _nothing_ to do with the guilt that is starting to churn away in his stomach, nothing to do with it at _all_ ). “I'm not gonna tell you what it is because that's the whole _point_ of a surprise, but if you really don't want to go, I can cancel anytime. I'm not gonna force you to do anything.”

 

There is silence in the car—a clumsy, uncomfortable silence—whilst Connor mulls over his options and Hank curses his past self for having the fucking idea in the first place. Part of him wishes he could go back in time and punch morning Hank in the face for getting him into this, but then another, bigger part of him knows that it still wouldn't have done the trick because in spite of the shitty turn this event planning has taken, Hank is still desperate to do something special for Connor (something so goddamn perfect) and this is the first time that an idea had made it past the unforgiving ' _that's stupid and he'll probably hate it_ ' level in Hank's brain.

 

The yellow glow in the car dims and the corners of Connor's lips quirk upward. “I have emailed HR, retracting my previous email. Is there anything else I need to do in order to prepare for this surprise?”

 

Hank feels the weight lift off of his shoulders, feels the barest hint of a smile reach his lips, as an unexpected trickle of relief starts seeping in. “Don't ask me any questions because I'm sure as shit not gonna spill any details. You're just going to have to wait and see what I've planned.” His voice softens. “I promise you'll have fun.”

 

“I should hope so,” Connor says dryly. “You did, after all, take away one of my vacation days without my express consent so you do owe me one.”

 

Hank huffs a laugh. “Yeah, sorry 'bout that. Next time I decide to surprise you, I'll give you advance warning.”

 

“Noted.” Connor bows his head, humbly accepting the half-assed apology. “And, Hank? I just want you to know that I don't find our routine boring.”

 

There it is again, that sliver of piercing sweetness that makes Hank swallow just a little bit harder and his chest tighten up just _so_ and it takes all of his willpower to keep his hands on his knees and not wrap them around the strange, perfect man sitting next to him. So he takes a steadying, cowardly breath and instead resorts to his usual defense mechanism against feelings. “You're just saying that because you haven't had to do the fucking groceries every week for thirty years. Give it another year or two and then we can talk.”

 

Before Connor can say reply in kind with something even more painfully heartfelt (or argue about how much fun grocery shopping can be), Hank turns the key in the ignition and deftly switches tracks. “Come on, what do you say to heading back and filing these statements and calling it an early day? Get our vacation off to a good start.”

 

And Connor—usually the one to insist they do everything they possibly can for a case before heading home—simply grins. “Sounds like an acceptable plan to me.”

 

\- - -

 

The highway out of Detroit is relatively quiet for an early Thursday morning and they make good time as they cruise along, passing through dense city and urban sprawl and finally to the outskirts where clusters of houses give way to nothing but open fields and forest.

 

Classic rock is playing on the radio and the car has been behaving so far (fingers crossed because it's old and hasn't been on a road trip in a hundred years) and Hank is actually enjoying himself. The sun is shining for the first time in weeks, the sky is blue, and he only had to yell at three dumb-ass drivers back in the heavier city traffic, which was well below the usual morning rush hour average.

 

_All in all, it's looking good_ , Hank congratulates himself with a mental pat on the shoulder. _No hassles so far and we've got lots of time to get there._

 

Even better was the fact that Connor still had no clue what's in store for him today, a fact that had had Hank grinning like an absolute moron all through last night's dinner as his state-of-the-art negotiator of a partner had tried (and failed) to use every tactic in the Negotiations for Dummies handbook.

 

At first, Connor had started with the easy-to-dodge stuff like ' _do you need me to map out a route for our drive tomorrow?_ ' and ' _what clothing would be appropriate for our day off?_ ' . Hank's answers of 'no' and 'whatever you want, it doesn't matter' had not been super helpful, according to a visibly frustrated Connor.

 

By the time Hank was picking miserably through his salad (he fucking _hated_ salad but his lingering guilt over the whole vacation shitfest had forced Hank into making nice with his boyfriend, which meant choking back the healthiest thing he could find), Connor had upped his game to teasing and bargaining and even fucking flirting, all of which had lasted through Hank's single, allowed beer, and the rest of their usual nightly routine.

 

Once in bed, Hank had been settling in for an early night (because he's stupid enough to have planned something that required a seven a.m. wake up call on a fucking vacation day) when Connor had given up on all of the legally approved methods and had opted instead for the down and dirty approach. Normally Hank wouldn't complain about having his gorgeously-built boyfriend trying to seduce him—in fact it was usually a very welcome thing (especially for a man like Hank who had given up on ever being wanted or desired _years_ ago). But it was just so fucking obvious that Honey Pot Connor had materialized simply to weasel out information on the following day's events that Hank hadn't been able to contain himself and had ended up with his arms around Connor's waist, laughing uproariously into Connor's smooth, freckled chest.

 

Connor had sulked, and for like the seventh time that day Hank had felt bad, so he had held Connor a little closer, stifled his laughter, dropped a few kisses along one gently sloped shoulder and apologized. _'You gotta understand, I'm an old man and if we're gonna get anywhere tomorrow, I need my damn sleep. We've got a long drive ahead of us.'_

 

It was the only detail that Hank had let spill and it must have been at the very least _something_ for Connor, because he had graciously allowed Hank to curl up behind him as they settled in for the night, even taking extra care to make sure Hank had his arm secured around his chest.

 

Compared to last night's unrelenting inquisition, Hank is surprised at how quiet Connor is, especially since Hank is pretty sure that Connor's experience with Detroit geography is limited to the downtown core and a few of the suburbs and basically where ever a case had taken them. With traffic becoming virtually nonexistent, Hank manages to take his eyes off of the road and hazard a quick look at his strangely silent passenger.

 

Connor is making every effort to looked relaxed but his back is rigid, his eyes are fixed straight ahead and Hank catches sight of that familiar flash of yellow flickering in the window's reflection. It takes another two, three, four glances for Hank to figure it out.

 

“You know,” Hank drawls, trains his eyes on the road, “you're gonna fry your brain if you keep scanning the exit signs and mapping out every possible route to every possible destination in the state of Michigan. That's got to be giving you sensory overload or some shit like that.”

 

Hank feels rather than sees Connor's sheepish glance. “I was not trying to map out every possible route. Just the most probable ones.”

 

Hank grins (there's such a stupid lightness in his chest, probably because today is a day free of responsibilities and mostly because he's fucking lucky enough to have Connor next to him, dressed up in jeans and a pale blue button-down and looking positively stunning) and reaches over to give Connor's knee a quick, reassuring squeeze. “Look, you can use all if your processing power to analyze every second of this trip or you can stop trying to predict my every move and just relax already. Do you trust me?”

 

“Of course,” Connor says. “But if something were to go wrong—”

 

“Connor,” Hank starts again, his voice softening. “Do you trust me?”

 

Connor takes an unnecessary breath. “Yes. I have always trusted you, Hank.”

 

The sheer sincerity in his voice, the lack of hesitation in saying those words (such important and meaningful and fucking honest words) has Hank's sad, withered heart growing in his already too-tight chest. “Then you know that I'm not going to make you do something or go somewhere that would make you uncomfortable,” Hank assures him. “I know surprises aren't a thing for you, but I figured it was high time you had another genuine human experience.”

 

“The human experience of extreme aggravation is not one I had marked down as something I needed to do,” Connor remarks huffily.

 

Hank can only laugh (he doesn't think he's laughed this much in a while and it fucking feels _good_ ). “And you're handling it _so_ well. Wait, before you start sniping at me, this up here's our exit, so you can go back to all that 'predicting our route' bullshit or you can sit back and enjoy the view. Have you ever seen a cow before?”

 

“No. I have never been this far outside of Detroit.”

 

“Then stop being a fucking detective and try to start enjoying your very first road trip. And if you can actually pretend to appreciate this, I'll let you keep an eye out for the house number once we reach the last turn off. Sound good?”

 

There is no sarcastic reply and Hank takes another peek at his boyfriend and realizes he doesn't have to worry about _anything_ because Connor's face is suddenly glued to the window, watching the rolling hills and farmhouses and—as if on cue—what looks like a dairy farm go flying by.

 

It's a strange feeling, driving down roads devoid of traffic (except for the occasional tractor that has Connor staring even harder and muttering 'they're so _big_ ') and Hank—who is usually too focused on avoiding and then subsequently yelling at shitty drivers—takes the time to actually watch the scenery, surprised at how bright and fresh and painfully green everything is. They pass by fields dotted with cows and then more cows, and then what looks like little balls of fluff ('Sheep!' Connor practically yells) and muddy fields dotted with mysterious hints of more green. There are pretty farmhouses and large silos on the horizon and those giant windmills interspersed between patches of forest. Overall, it looks like a fucking picture perfect postcard and Hank—a city boy, through and through—is pleasantly surprised that to discover that he doesn't mind it. _If this works out_ , he thinks to himself, _we might have to come out here more often._

 

In spite of not using his phone to bleat out the driving instructions, Hank manages to find his way along the winding roads without any hassle (because some of his old man skills do come in handy once in a while, like the ability to physically _read_ instructions to get somewhere instead of constantly relying on fucking technology) and, as they turn off onto a rugged gravel road that has potholes the size of planets, Hank whips a sticky note from his coat pocket and tosses it to Connor. “Here, that's the address. Let me know when we're close.”

 

After a couple of tooth-jarring dips into literal sinkholes—and a couple of near misses that would have otherwise sent the car flying hood first into a bottomless pit—Connor pipes up with the welcome news that their destination is imminent.

 

“Willow Creek Farm should be on the left in six hundred meters,” Connor informs him and Hank can hear it, can hear just the smallest hint of excitement creeping into that calm, quirky voice because he knows Connor can't help himself, that he's probably searched the address and read through the relevant information and _finally_ has some inkling as to what's brought them out here, to the ass end of nowhere, on a random Thursday in May.

 

“About damn time,” Hank gripes without any true rancor, “because I don't think the transmission can take much more of this fucking road.”

 

He steers onto a much better maintained gravel driveway that snakes around clumps of silver birch and budding trees and along the edges of freshly painted dark brown fencing. And—just when Hank thinks the quaint country charm can't get any more disgustingly charming—they arrive at foot of an immaculate stone house with a wide front porch and white trim and forest green shutters framing each window. It literally looks like something out of 'Country Home Digest' or some shit like that and Hank has to admit that for Connor's first countryside experience, this probably couldn't get any more ridiculously perfect.

 

The door to the house opens before they make it three feet up the front path and two large Saint Bernards coming barreling down the stairs and over the path and would have knocked them both clean over if Hank hadn't braced himself and Connor hadn't bent down to greet them. The dogs can't seem to decide who they want to say hello to first and Hank feels like he's caught in a sea of black, brown, and white fur as they weave in between him and Connor, snuffles and drool being passed around liberally.

 

“Sorry about that!” A familiar voice calls out and Hank looks up from giving the dog closest to him a scratch to see a blast from his past come jogging down the stairs.

 

Nancy Richardson hasn't changed much in the last three years, except for acquiring a few more streaks of gray in her bright red hair. She's a tall woman and built like some old-time dairy company's idea of a milkmaid (Hank's always been convinced she could take him in a fight and probably crush him) and her blue eyes are as warm and friendly as the smile she sends her new visitors. “They may be giants but they're slippery when they're trying to escape out the door. At least you're not being suffocated by one of them this time, Hank.”

 

“Sumo's given me a lot of practice at dodging take-downs.” One of the dogs sits suddenly at his feet and flings his slobbery head against Hank's thigh, which is so much like Sumo's demands for attention that Hank can't help but shake his head.

 

“Nice to hear one of my boys is still going strong,” she laughs then turns to the android currently half-buried by the other dog. “And you must be Connor. Hank says you're as crazy about dogs as I am.”

 

Connor, ever polite and respectable, stands and wipes his fur-covered hands on his pants before reaching out to shake Nancy's outstretched hand. “It's nice to meet you.”

 

“My, I didn't think the Lieutenant here would know anyone with actual manners,” Nancy remarks slyly. “I heard more curse words coming out of his mouth that day in my backyard than I'd heard in all of my fifty-nine years of being on this earth.”

 

“He does need to watch his language more often,” Connor agrees. “He uses swear words in approximately 67% of his conversations.”

 

Hank is actually surprised the percentage isn't higher, but he protests with an indignant “Hey, I'm standing right here” and Nancy laughs and Connor grins and whatever lingering worries that have been skirting the edge of his thoughts disintegrate like dust into the fresh country air.

 

“As much as I would love to stand around and chit-chat all morning, I don't want to keep you from the real reason you're here,” Nancy says casually and Hank could hug her for her act because she's doing a fantastic job of playing along with Hank's request that this surprise stay a surprise for as long as it can. “Why don't you guys follow me and I'll take you to the barn.”

 

“What's in the barn?” Connor asks innocently (and Hank could fucking kiss him right then and there for playing along too, because Hank damn well _knows_ that Connor is now fully aware of what's in the barn, thanks to whatever internal processors of his went searching through cyberspace to land on Nancy's descriptive web page).

 

Nancy sends the two dogs at their feet back up to the porch (Hank is impressed by the fact they actually listen to her command because Sumo would have feigned ignorance and simply rolled onto his back) before she starts to lead them across the wide front lawn. “You'll see.”

 

It's only natural that Hank has an extra spring in his step (he can't remember the last time he had had a bounce in fucking _anything_ but the entire point of this surprise is literally around the corner and he can't help be a little bit excited) and it's only natural that Connor falls in to step with him as they follow Nancy around the side of the house and towards the back of the property. When the barn looms above them, weathered and rustic, it feels only natural to take Connor's hand and give it a gentle tug and lead him through the open doors and towards the surprise that Hank is desperate to give him.

 

Inside, the exotic perfume of hay and dogs lingers in the air as warm spring sunshine filters through dusty windows and illuminates the mesh enclosures that line each side of the barn. In the smaller stalls on the right, Hank spies two more fully grown Saint Bernards stretched out and dozing in the morning sun. But it's the enclosure on the left that's the most important because it holds seven small reasons as to why he'd suffered through the many headaches of planning this adventure in the first place.

 

Connor sees them—has been unable to focus on anything else, even the other dogs in the barn, the moment he stepped inside—and his guileless eyes (Hank swears those eyes could charm a fucking scum banker out of a few extra bucks) widen and his simulated breathing stills and his fingers tighten on Hank's like a vise.

 

“There are seven Saint Bernard puppies in there,” Connor murmurs to no one in particular, “and they all look like Sumo.”

 

“No surprise there since their mom is a cousin of Sumo's,” Nancy's voice breaks through their shared reverie. “Both of the dogs have the same grandfather.”

 

Hank had nearly forgotten about Nancy's existence and he gently releases Connor's hand not because he is embarrassed by this rare show of affection in front of a relative stranger but because she's unlocking the gate and is quickly ushering them inside of the enclosure before one of the puppies makes a run for it.

 

The gate clicks shut behind them and Connor—usually graceful and almost cat-like in his reflexes—is frozen to the spot as an impending mass of puppies barrel towards him in a fit of pure doggy joyfulness. “Hank,” Connor whispers, “what if they're afraid of me?”

 

Hank's heart twists at the unease in his boyfriend's voice. “Connor, every damn dog in the greater Detroit area wants to be your friend. These guys are no different. Just take a seat on the ground and be yourself and you'll be fine.”

 

Connor bends down slowly, painfully slow—because Connor's probably afraid that if he moves any faster he will, in fact, scare them—until he's seated cross-legged on the ground with his arms out as seven uncoordinated Saint Bernard puppies come stumbling over to lavish their affection on this new, strange-smelling person.

 

It doesn't take long for Connor's lap to become full of squirming, squeaking puppy and his arms cradle a particularly large pup—with an uncanny Sumo-like face—that is trying to climb up Connor's chest and lick his chin. There's another puppy near his feet, tugging at a shoelace ( _looks like a little hellraiser,_ Hank thinks approvingly) and the fifth puppy has its head on Connor's leg and is hunkered down for a long nap.

 

The sixth one seems to be the most independent and is trooping around Nancy's feet and poking its nose through the mesh, but it is the seventh puppy that Hank can't ignore because that particular little shithead is at his feet and crying pitifully at being left on the cold, hard ground.

 

“Hank, you should at least say hello,” Nancy admonishes him and Hank grumbles something unpleasant under his breath as he leans down and scoops the fluffy fucker up (even _he_ —jaded, crusty, asshole detective of the year—can't resist a six-week old Saint Bernard).

 

He had never really understood everyone's obsession with puppies, not when you could get a perfectly good dog who could sit and stay and not crap on your carpet. But as he lifts the floppy fuzzball and tucks it up against his chest and as that tiny squishy nose snuggles in close to Hank' neck and the furry head nestles in tight to Hank's shoulder, the wall that Hank had erected against baby animals and all things cute literally fucking crumbles into a million pieces.

 

The puppy's heartbeat settles against his chest and Hank manages a quick glimpse at the brown and white face and realizes the little jerk is starting to fall asleep and he can't stop the fucking soft smile from reaching his face (he knows he's smiling like an idiot because his cheeks are tight and aching). Then he makes the biggest mistake of all by finally meeting Connor's gaze and the full impact of Connor's beautiful, radiant smile and over-bright eyes hits Hank like a (much-needed) shot to the chest.

 

In the early days of his deviancy, Connor's ability to deal with mood swings had been spectacularly bad. On the worst days, Hank had been subjected to a happy Connor in the morning only to end up with a sullen or angry or frustrated Connor by the afternoon and then to another completely emotionally distant Connor by the evening. Connor had insisted on keeping his own place during those first few roller coaster weeks until one day the sheer burden of being human and all the shit that it entailed had been too much and Connor had practically charged down Hank's door at fuck-knows-what-time in the night to have a break down in Hank's bewildered arms. Hank had offered Connor the couch and Connor had settled in and settled down and only then had he been able to begin the process of navigating the shitstorm of emotions that were coursing through his newly-freed system.

 

Suffice to say, Hank has seen Connor at his best and at his worst. He recognizes the sound of Connor's laughter, of the bite that tinges his words when he's mad, of the hitch in his voice when he's upset. He knows Connor has the ability to cry, has felt the sheer helplessness of holding Connor against his chest and feeling those very tears soak through his shirt.

 

Connor hasn't had a reason to cry in a long time though and now Hank's gone and done something to activate those tear receptors because Hank is a fucking jackass who hasn't done anything (until now) to show his boyfriend just how much he is appreciated and cared for and _loved._

 

Love, that godforsaken word that Hank's been avoiding like the plague for months. The thing that has been crawling through his chest and into his heart and lungs and throat and head and every last inch of his body and soul. The very thing he's been refusing to think about because he's such a fucking coward and he hasn't had someone to love in so, _so_ long that the very thought of it makes him want to back into a corner and curl into the fetal position with hands over his eyes and pretend ignorance in an act of self-protection (he knows all too well that love can fucking hurt).

 

But there, wound tightly around his heart, is Connor. Connor, who, in the beginning, had driven him up the fucking wall with all of his unnecessary attempts at conversation and inability to know when to fuck right off. Connor, who had been an incessant thorn in his side until somehow, over the course of a November week, became the partner Hank had never actually wished for but had been needing all the same. Sneaky, sweet Connor who had integrated himself into Hank's otherwise miserable life and had, by some miracle, dragged him out of his debilitating rut and forced him to start living again.

 

The very same Connor who is now chatting away with Nancy—probably grilling her on the habits and needs of his new pack of friends—and swamped by puppies and looking the happiest Hank has seen him since that first morning they had woken up in the same bed, under the same blanket and practically sharing the same fucking pillow. He hadn't been strong enough to admit to it then because everything was so new and tentative and unsure. And on the heaviest of of days, Hank was convinced that Connor was simply too inexperienced to know any better, that if someone better came along, Connor would realize his mistake in hitching himself to an old, washed-up alcoholic whose prime years were so fucking far behind him that you'd need a goddamn telescope to see them.

 

But the months have passed and Connor has stayed put and has done nothing but fucking _cared_ and Hank can finally admit that maybe he was wrong. Maybe Connor was never a problem to be solved. Rather, he was simply an answer to a question that Hank had been too afraid (coward that he is) to ask himself. And maybe, just maybe, being in love with Connor wasn't worth a fight because fighting things like your feelings is so fucking exhausting and Hank is so, _so_ damn tired of feeling like shit.

 

_(Oh my god it took you long enough,_ the voice mutters.

 

_You can just go ahead and fuck yourself_ , Hank snaps back.)

 

\- - -

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part III is in progress and not as long, so hopefully if life can hold off for a bit, I can get this story finished soon.
> 
> As always, any feedback is appreciated!


	3. Part III

\- - -

Part III

\- - -

 

Connor could have stayed on that farm forever, Hank thinks as they make their final good-byes to Nancy and her dogs. He'd spent the morning cuddling puppies in the barn and then cuddling them outside (the rain had kept them indoors so Nancy had insisted they bring them out to the grass for some playtime) and cuddling them as they had finally felt the effects of a prolonged morning of activity and started to doze off.

 

By the time all the puppies had been safely returned to the barn, Connor was a mess. His shirt was missing a button, his pants were covered in fur, one of his shoelaces was untied, and he had a damp spot on his head from where one of his puppy friends had clambered up onto his shoulder and started chewing on his hair. He had also never smiled so much or laughed so much or looked so happy that Hank was actually worried that he might have fried a few internal processors from sheer fucking joy.

 

Nancy had insisted they stay for lunch and Hank had surprised himself—die-hard loner that he is—by actually enjoying the company. She was a great storyteller and Connor was an avid listener when it came to all things dog so Hank hadn't needed to put in any effort while the two chattered away about Saint Bernards and city versus country and Connor's spiral into deviancy and everything in between. She had even made the perfect day more perfect when she had surprised them both by whipping out an old tablet and proceeding to show them an entire photo album dedicated to Sumo's litter.

 

As Nancy waves them off from the driveway—the two older dogs sitting by her side—Hank can only hum contentedly. There's a container of leftover lasagna and another one of apple pie in the back (they couldn't refuse such a generous gift and besides, Connor owes him at least one decent, carb-loaded meal), the windows are rolled down to let the fresh breeze in, and Connor is flicking through his phone, most likely happily sorting through all of the puppy Sumo pictures that Nancy had forwarded to his email.

 

It isn't until he maneuvers the car back onto the nightmare of a road that Hank remembers just how bad the pot holes are (he gets a reminder as his outside tire catches the edge of a small rut) and he hunkers down to focus on getting his precious car back to some semblance of a real fucking road before the entire undercarriage gets blown off.

 

Maybe it's because he's too caught up in his own thoughts (because having the word 'love' come back into your life requires some poking and prodding and he's still processing it), or maybe it's because most of his concentration is on the fucking cratered road, but Hank doesn't clue in to the silence in the car until it's too late.

 

(Later, looking back on this moment, Hank will wonder why the hell he didn't question the absolute silence. His passenger was _Connor_ of all people, the same person who had once spent a whole evening telling Hank about the differences in the various giant dog breeds and going into unnecessary detail about the origin and subsequent history of Sumo's descendants. No, there was no fucking way that car should have been quiet, not after Connor had spent an entire day buried up to his eyeballs in puppies.)

 

The car hits the edge of a particularly nasty pothole and Hank curses as he swerves abruptly to the side of the road and all of a sudden, out of the blue, Connor cries “Hank, please, pull over!”

 

Hank's first thought is ' _Fuck, something's happened to the fucking car'_ so of course he listens to his know-it-all boyfriend (because Connor's knowledge base is _huge_ and most likely includes a repair manual for a car from last fucking century.) and quickly pulls over to the grassy shoulder.

 

“Shit, Connor, what the hell's wrong? Is it—”

 

But Connor is no longer in the passenger seat. He's up and out and slamming the door shut behind him before Hank can finish his sentence.

 

Shocked, it takes him a moment to register that the car is still running (and sounding strangely normal for all of Connor's dramatic attitude) and Hank turns the key in the ignition, takes a deep breath to steady his pounding heart, before joining Connor outside.

 

“For fuck's sake, Connor, what happened?” Hank demands, stalking over to where Connor is standing half-turned towards the paddock that skirts along the edge of the road. There's a single, lone cow standing a few feet away from the fence and for the briefest of moments, Hank actually wonders if Connor's freak out was because he was on animal overload and had decided to add 'cow' to the list of 'Animals Connor Has Met'.

 

But as he gets closer, Hank notes the stiff posture, the fists at Connor's side, and the ominous swirl of red at Connor's temple and Hank realizes that no, the cow was _not_ the reason Connor had gone flying out of the car. Something's got him all worked up and Hank can't fathom for the life of him what could have riled Connor so badly that he had to practically leap from a moving vehicle. They'd just spent an entire day with _puppies_ , which was pretty much the equivalent to Connor's version of heaven. He should be on Cloud Nine, not poised at the side of the road looking for all the world like he was going to blow.

 

“Connor,” Hank starts slowly, because all the signs are pointing to his boyfriend having some kind of meltdown. “What's wrong? Is it the car?”

 

Connor shakes his head, his LED crimson and bright. “No.”

 

One-word answers are, for Connor, a sign that something is, in fact, super fucking wrong. _Well if it isn't the car..._ “Is it the cow that won't stop fucking staring at us?”

 

“No.” But there is a faint tug at the edges of those familiar lips and Hank realizes there is some hope after all because Connor usually doesn't have a sense of humour when he's near the edge of a breakdown.

 

“Then do you mind telling me why you lost your shit and made me pull over?”

 

Connor sighs. Hank had found it strange, at first, to hear that sound coming out of a person who didn't require any type of breathing to function and had wondered why Connor even had the ability to sigh but he's realized it's an indicator of Connor's level of exasperation and it usually points to that level as 'high'.

 

“I needed...I have to...I just...” Abruptly, Connor shakes his head again and runs a frustrated hand through his hair (it's a distinctly human gesture and Hank can't help but think how much he loves it, loves all the little motions that Connor has picked up that make him so special and unique and _real_ ).

 

Hank can be a patient man when he wants to be and now seems like a crucial time to exercise that patience. He leans back against the hood of the car, crosses his arms over his chest and waits.

 

There is little sound out here in the middle of fucking nowhere except for the rustling of trees and the cow's chewing on grass ( _holy hell do cows chew loudly_ ) and just when Hank has had enough of all this rustic bullcrap and decides he has to say _something_ , Connor turns and makes his way back over to the car and stands in front of Hank. Whatever thoughts or questions or feelings or murderous urges that he had been struggling with seem to have resolved because the LED at Connor's temple has settled back to blue and that blindingly perfect face has softened into a more normal Connor expression. The only sign that Connor has any lingering distress is the fact his left hand is playing with the sleeve of his right arm, twisting and turning the button holding the cuff closed.

 

And still, Hank waits.

 

“Today has been wonderful,” Connor finally chokes out and his voice is strangely patchy, as if the words are having trouble getting through his vocal processors. “I am sorry for asking you so many questions last night and for trying to get you to reveal the surprise to me. I am...unused to being kept in the dark and I was frustrated by your lack of information.”

 

“No need to apologize,” Hank replies with a toothy grin. “I knew it was pretty much torture for you. Not gonna lie though, I had fun doing it.”

 

“I could tell,” Connor says dryly as his voice settles into a more normal pitch. “You certainly didn't hide how you felt about my distress. But that is besides the point.” He purses his lips and his LED flashes, again, a brief curl of red. “The road trip itself would have been enough of a surprise because this area outside of Detroit is all new to me and I have enjoyed seeing things that I have, until now, only ever seen on TV or online. I didn't realize how...open everything is out here or how far the horizon can stretch. Or that cows and tractors are—when seen in person—very large.”

 

Hank snorts. “Wait until you see horses. They're fucking huge.”

 

“Perhaps another day,” Connor remarks and there's a new tone seeping into his words, one that Hank can't quite place. _Is it wistful? Thoughtful?_ He can't be sure.

 

A hint of a smile begins to creep across Connor's face as he continues. “I don't know how to convey to you how much today has meant to me, or how much it means to me that you, Hank, were the one to plan it. To go to all of this trouble just so I could meet a group of puppies that look like Sumo was...well, it was exceptional. To me. I will never forget it.”

 

Hank's having trouble tearing his gaze away from Connor, feels like he's frozen, because that voice is only warming, the tone is steadying and getting ever more sensitive with every word that's spoken.

 

( _It's called tenderness_ , _you dipshit_ , the voice finally breaks in.

 

_I fucking know what it is_ , Hank retorts.)

 

Connor hesitates, his restless fingers still and, if Hank didn't know any better, it looks like Connor takes a steadying breath. “I need to tell you something, Hank, but I am having trouble with the words.”

 

There's only one thing that Hank can think of that would have his boyfriend freaking out and stuttering and unable to tell Hank in clear fucking sentences what's happened and suddenly Hank feels panic rise in his throat. “I swear to fuck Connor, if there's a puppy stashed somewhere in the car—”

 

And Connor just laughs and then says easily, without hesitation, “I love you.”

 

There. There are the words. And the only thing Hank's fucking dumb brain can think is ' _thank god he didn't steal a puppy_ ' before Connor wraps his arms around Hank's neck and kisses him like the world is ending.

 

Hank's arms go automatically around Connor's waist in one smooth motion, tightening until Connor is snug against him and Hank can feel the heat of his lithe body through the layers of his clothes. The kiss is hot and desperate and it's like Connor is exploring uncharted territory because his tongue sweeps high and low, tasting every last flavour that Hank has hiding away. Hank rides out the pulses of heat that rip through his body with every sweep of Connor's tongue until his brain finally, _finally_ catches up and Hank angles his head and Connor is suddenly half on top of him and the kiss softens oh-so-sweetly into something more tender and gentle and fucking delicious.

 

And when Hank realizes he needs to breathe, he takes his time, slowing down his enthusiastic boyfriend with soft nips at his lower lip, then trailing soft kisses along his jawline and by the sensitive lobe of his ear until Hank can press his lips into the hair at Connor's temple and wait for his lungs to refill with air.

 

Connor shifts and Hank tightens his arms because there is no fucking way he's letting go just yet. Connor's said _those_ words and Hank knows he can do it, he can say them back (a part of him can only laugh at the timing because if this had happened hours ago, Hank would have been beating a hasty retreat from even having the word 'love' in his head). He just needs time, time to reorient his heart and get his head in the game and man the fuck up.

 

Time, which, unfortunately, Connor doesn't seem to be willing to give him because as Hank's breathing returns to its normal rate, he belatedly realizes that Connor's been talking softly, his words muffled by the crook of Hank's shoulder.

 

“—no obligation, you know. It is an emotion that I have struggled to identify these past few months because it was not easy to define. Love is complex and I do not expect you to share the same feelings for me because we have only been in a relationship for five months, which, according to Australian Women's Weekly, is still considered the honeymoon phase and everything will feel exciting and new and it may lead to a false feeling of love—”

 

If Hank hadn't already realized just how deep his love for Connor ran, that statement, he thinks, would have done the trick. “What in the ever loving fuck drove you to read _Australian Women's Weekly_?”

 

Connor hums against the skin of Hank's neck. “I was confused by what I was feeling and whether these feelings were normal and a preliminary search on 'The Stages of a Relationship' brought up that particular article. It was an interesting read.”

 

Hank muffles his laugh into Connor's mussed hair. “You could have asked me, you know.”

 

“Really?” Connor pulls away, meets Hank's gaze in disbelief. “Ask you to define why, sometimes when I would look at you, my thirium pump would feel as if it were ready to burst? Or why I would wake up from stasis and hear your heart beating and feel as though I was at peace, when my mind was not in any way distressed.” He shakes his head. “I reconstructed every possible scenario in relation to my feelings for you and most of them had you either claiming that I did not know what love was or that I was only in love with you because I had no other experience to compare you too. There was one scenario that ended positively, but only after you had drunk half a bottle of whiskey. Seeing as you are doing so well with managing your drinking habits, I thought it best to discard that scenario from my options.”

 

Hank doesn't know whether to cry or laugh because Connor's tone is so matter-of-fact and disapproving and Connor knows Hank so fucking well (better than most people who've passed through Hank's shitty life) and he's here— _he's still_ here—even after seeing Hank at his worst and his not-so-worst and all the filler in between. And Connor loves him—fucking _loves_ him—in spite of all the shit he's seen and Hank loves him too, because how could he not love the only person who's ever had the guts to call him on his bullshit or help him navigate those darker days or force feed him godawful vegetables?

 

It's not even a question, but Hank has the answer and he presses a fleeting kiss to Connor's forehead. “I don't need a fucking bottle of whiskey to tell you that I love you too.”

 

Connor frowns, which is a bad reaction to hearing the words 'I love you' for the first time, but Hank knows him well enough to know that he's probably cycling through all the reasons why Hank would feel the need to say those words back ( _again_ ) and none of those scenarios are painting Hank's declaration in a positive light.

 

_Fucking android logic_ , Hank grumbles as he tries to salvage what should be a heartfelt declaration and not the disaster it's turning out to be. “Look, we both know I suck at a lot of things, feelings being one of them. And I'm not gonna lie, I've been through enough 'love' shit in my life to make me never want to even think about those words again.”

 

“ _But_ ,” Hank continues, his voice gruff, before Connor has a chance to protest, “I also know a good thing when I see it, and you're all the good things to me and I love you for it. For being you, even though you're a pain-in-the-ass sometimes. For caring about me, even when I'm a difficult son-of-a-bitch half of the time.” Hank swallows against the sudden tightness in his throat as the words he's been burying come crawling out of the figurative ground, leaving behind nothing but pure, unadulterated relief in their wake. “I've spent so long hating myself that it's hard to feel like I deserve someone like you in my life, and don't give me that look because you _do_ deserve someone better. But I'm past the point of caring because I'm fucking selfish and I want you for as long as you're willing to tolerate me.”

 

He frames his boyfriend's face with his hands, keeps his voice low as he does his damned best to ensure that everything he says sinks in and dissolves any doubt Connor may still have . “Connor, I may not be the man I was all those years ago, but what's left of me is yours. All yours.”

 

Connor's answer is to kiss him again (hard and sweet and loving) and Hank can practically taste the words 'I love you' on Connor's tongue and he responds in kind because he's tired out his vocabulary for the day and there's nothing left in him except the urge to drag Connor to the grassy ground and use his mouth and his hands to imprint those very same words onto every last inch of Connor's perfect freckled skin.

 

But he's brought back to reality by the cow braying—of all things, it would have to be a _fucking noisy cow_ —and Hank breaks the kiss to launch a few choice words at the interloper and Connor buries his head into the front of Hank's shirt as his shoulders shake with silent laughter and the heady spell of their not-so-romantic declarations is broken.

 

“Guess we better get going,” Hank grumbles. “Don't wanna get caught up in evening traffic. Besides, there are some things I want to do to you without having a fucking cow for an audience. Unless you wanna go say hello to our friend over there?”

 

“There will be other opportunities to meet cows,” Connor assures him and Hank realizes just how deeply Connor _does_ love him because normally Connor would jump at the chance to meet yet another animal. Instead, Connor kisses him one last time—quick and sure and promising that this moment has not ended but has merely been put on hold—and his smile is sure as he reaches for the passenger door.

 

“Let's go home.”

 

\- - -

 

There are still words in Hank's life that are embedded onto the pages, words like 'jaded' and 'grouchy' and 'cantankerous' and 'asshole'. Those words aren't going anywhere and Hank still prides himself on them because when it all comes down to it, they're pretty much true. He _is_ crusty and he knows he has a bite and he's seen more destruction and carnage and shit than the average human or android, so it's no wonder he has a few walls up around his heart. He's too old to change anything about himself too, but that's besides the point because at the end of the day, Hank is comfortable with himself and who he is and the fact that he still has some friends in spite of this attitude proves that he isn't the worst person in the world.

 

He also knows the word 'depression' will linger on those pages too but he's working on it, working on making that particularly shitty word take up just a few sentences instead of a whole chapter. Loss and heartbreak will never go away but it's getting better, bit by minuscule bit, and it is no longer a rare occurrence for Hank to realize that he's gone a whole day without the darkness bleeding into his thoughts. He's even gone so far as to put Cole's photo on a shelf in front of some of his most beloved books, a defiant 'fuck you' to that particular word and a sign that he is finally, _finally_ learning how to cope with his grief.

 

But there are other words being written down in the Encyclopedia of Hank Anderson too, words that he would have balked at months ago. There is 'content' and 'settled' and even (in somewhat smaller letters because he _still_ has a hard time admitting to it) 'happy'. The word 'soft' still rankles him and makes him want to puke but since there's only a small handful of people who would use that stupid word to describe Hank, he's had to accept—albeit bitterly—that it will stay on its rightful page, right next to the overused, hyped-up, ridiculous (but oh-so-fucking-important) word 'love'.

 

Love. Movies and TV and books had got it all wrong—it's nothing dramatic like a shovel to the head or a bolt of lightning to the chest. It's softer, more subtle, like twisting and turning a puzzle piece until it clicks in just _right_ and suddenly the mess of colours become something tangible and real. And it feels so fucking good to have that piece find its place because the wretched, restless feeling that had been gnawing away at Hank's thoughts these last few months is suddenly quiet and replaced with the certainty that his heart and his affection and his every ounce of love that he has to give, for better or worse, belongs to Connor.

 

He's been getting better at saying it (he doesn't choke anymore, which is an extreme improvement) and showing it and just generally making 'love' a permanent fixture in his life. It helps too that Connor is still unsure of the words himself—for a negotiator designed to literally be able to have any conversation possible, it's kind of funny when he stumbles over three simple words—but words are really just words and at the end of a long day, it doesn't matter if the words are said, only that the feeling is still there, hanging silent and understood and true between them.

 

It's also the reason the phrase 'doggy play date' is now a goddamn thing Hank has actually experienced (Sumo had not, in fact, crushed Officer Fraser's puppy but there had been a few near misses) and it's the reason why he now has a standing invitation to visit Nancy's farm whenever he and Connor feel like it (there's already plans for a fall visit because Nancy's promised a whole new batch of puppies for Connor to play with and fresh apple crumble for Hank). It's why the fridge is still stocked with vegetables and why the whiskey bottle stays pretty much untouched in the back of a cupboard and why Hank shelled out a few extra bucks to ensure that they now get Animal Planet on TV.

 

It's also the reason why Hank is finally losing some of his hesitation over people knowing that Connor is not, in fact, a platonic house guest, because hiding their relationship like some kind of dirty secret is no longer an option. Not when Hank is actually proud of the fact that someone so wonderful, so inhumanly perfect, so ridiculously intelligent could look at a man like Hank Anderson and see through all of the jaded grumpiness and think of the word ' _love_ '.

 

Because Hank would rather be fucking hit by a train than show affection in public, it's still a work in progress but he thinks it's going pretty well. Just the other day in the break room, Chris had been inviting everyone to a backyard barbecue so the squad could finally meet his baby boy. Hank had stopped by to grab a coffee, Connor at his heels, before heading in to interrogate a suspect when he had been on the receiving end of Chris' enthusiastic invite.

 

Hank had accepted (without too much griping) and Reed had smirked his usual stupid, smartass smirk. “Gonna bring your plastic pet as your _date_ , Lieutenant?”

 

Old Hank would have started off whatever denial he had in store with the usual beginning of 'fuck you' but this new and kind-of-improving Hank had simply shrugged. “Well, yeah. Who the fuck else would I bring?”

 

It wasn't much of an answer or a confirmation but for Hank, it was _something_. And judging by the stunned silence left in his wake as he had swept out of the break room, everyone else in the squad knew just how much of a revelation Hank's non-denial actually was. (He knew Connor had enjoyed it too because as Hank was signing in to the interrogation room, Connor's fingers had brushed against his and they had shared a smile that would have caused Reed and Chris and everyone else in the department to drop dead from shock).

 

So yeah, _progress._ It's stilted and some days Hank feels like he takes two steps back for every step he moves forward, but there is progress all the same. Connor is there, always, ready to pick him back up when he needs it or just to give him a well-intentioned shove. More importantly, he's there for Connor too, on the days that human emotions get too overwhelming or a crime scene is particularly brutal or when they both just need a moment's peace from a world that really doesn't give a shit about the people (human or android) in it.

 

Those quiet moments are key, Hank has realized, to maintaining the balance he has struggled (and somewhat succeeded) to build. It's the walks with Sumo, even if they drive him fucking nuts because Sumo will sniff everything and Connor lets him and it's all Hank can do from grabbing the leash and dragging them both along at something faster than a snail's pace. It's the nights spent haphazardly sprawled on the couch with the TV on (sports or documentaries or, if they're feeling brave, even the news) and no conversation needed because they'd both done enough talking for the day. It's the mornings in the kitchen, with eggs frying (if Hank is lucky) and the smell of coffee wafting in the air and Sumo waiting patiently at Hank's feet for any scraps that might happen to tumble his way.

 

It's a moment like now, when they're sitting side by side in bed, propped up by the new pillows Connor had insisted they needed to help ease some of Hank's old man pains ( _who knew fucking sleeping could hurt?_ ). Hank's flipping through a basketball magazine and Connor is lavishing attention on Sumo, who has his massive bulk tucked between Connor's legs and has managed to squeeze his giant head onto Connor's thigh, his eyes closed in sheer doggy bliss. It's simple and stupidly domestic, and Hank doesn't fight the wave of contentment that washes over him because they'd had a long week and it's just _nice_ to finally feel like something in their lives is going well. And when Connor's head falls, nestling onto Hank's shoulder, Hank doesn't hesitate to press a lingering kiss into Connor's strangely silky hair and rests his cheek there, his chest filling with a now familiar warmth that radiates through his every limb and settles comfortably in the depths of his heart.

 

_(Not such a bad thing, being in love,_ the voice remarks.

 

And for once, Hank can only agree.)

 

\- - -

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, a huge THANK YOU to everyone who has read and left kudos and commented on this ridiculously long story. It was originally just a few paragraphs I wrote for myself because 'Connor with puppies' is the only image I need in my life, and it has been seriously humbling and touching to see how many people want this image in their lives too. 
> 
> So thank you! And hope you enjoyed the read :)


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